To the Woman Left Holding Her Heart: Divorce, Motherhood, and the Long Road Back to Herself
A Letter to the Woman Navigating Divorce with a Young Child
To the woman who never imagined herself here,
To the mother sitting in the quiet after drop-off, missing her child so fiercely it makes her ribs ache—this is for you.
I’m writing from the raw middle of it. Not the tidy before, not the triumphant after—but the thick, pulsing center of grief, reckoning, and rebuilding.
A few years ago, I made a life-altering decision. I stepped away from my 18-year career as a Talent Executive—something I had worked relentlessly to build. I was burned out to the bone, but more than that, I was pouring everything I had into becoming a mother. Fertility treatments had already consumed years of my life by then, and I knew I had to choose between preserving my job or preserving my dream.
So I left. I left the career, the identity, the paycheck—so I could continue my treatments, pursue my certifications, and begin my IVF series fully committed.
What followed was some of the darkest emotional terrain I’ve ever crossed. I experienced hormone-induced depression. I fell into two years of postpartum depression after giving birth. I was raw, vulnerable, stretched beyond recognition.
And when I needed understanding most, this is what met me:
“You’re not the same person you used to be. Your emotions are destabilizing and make me feel unsafe.”
That sentence reverberates through me even now. There’s a sharp edge to being vulnerable and finding out that the very thing that makes you human—your feelings—is seen as a flaw. As if bleeding is the problem, not the wound.
When Life Unravels in Every Direction
And as if the heartbreak of divorce and the grief of losing daily time with my son weren’t enough to carry, life had other layers waiting.
At the same time this was all unfolding, my two aging dogs, my constant companions through every season of my life, began to suffer their own health crises. Vet visits, medications, the creeping knowledge that I was nearing the end of my time with them—it was another grief silently growing alongside the others. And then, my best friend faced a serious health scare of her own.
There were days it felt like every corner of my life was crumbling at once, each piece demanding something from me that I no longer had to give. The grief compounded, tangled together so tightly that it was hard to tell where one sorrow ended and the next began.
But grief is rarely neat. It overlaps, piles on, and demands you carry it all at once. And when life feels impossible to untangle, sometimes you search for meaning wherever you can find it.
Seeking Understanding: Astrology as a Lens
In the absence of closure from my ex, I found myself grasping for understanding. I needed something—anything—to help me make sense of why we seemed to move through life, and through loss, in such different ways.
I dove deep into astrology, not as a cure, but as a lens—a framework that helped me see patterns where I could find none. She is a Capricorn. I am an Aquarius. And somehow, that small piece of information illuminated things that words between us never could.
Capricorn, ruled by Saturn, approaches life with control, structure, and a sense of duty. During times of loss, Capricorns tend to tighten up emotionally—they can seem distant, even cold, masking their fear of vulnerability with stoicism. Control becomes their shield.
Aquarius, ruled by Uranus and Saturn, craves understanding, connection, and higher meaning. We process emotions by talking through them, analyzing, connecting the dots, and reaching outward. In loss, we often lean into our feelings in search of insight and connection.
When I needed emotional transparency, she needed emotional distance. When I leaned in, she pulled away.
This realization sent a larger-than-life message to me: our capacities are profoundly different. I can’t expect her to offer something that, for me, feels instinctual—something embedded deep in my wiring as a human being. Our hard wirings are simply not the same.
And while that truth doesn’t take the sting of loss away, it offers perspective on certain days. It helps me manage expectations—not just of her, but of what healing might actually look like.
The Grief of Being the One Left Behind
And I know I’m not alone.
Statistics tell us that women are more likely to be on the receiving end of divorce. While 69% of divorces in heterosexual marriages are initiated by women, the 31% left behind often carry the heaviest emotional load. In LGBTQ+ relationships, the dynamics echo these patterns. A 2022 Williams Institute report found that lesbian couples are more likely to divorce than gay male couples, often due to emotional labor imbalances and parenting stress.
For those of us left standing in the rubble, this isn’t just about losing a partner—it’s about losing the stability, the rhythm, and the everyday moments that once anchored us.
Co-Parenting While Your Heart is Still Broken
And somehow, you still have to co-parent. To show up. To steady yourself when everything feels unsteady.
Co-parenting when your heart is in shards—when your soul still trembles from betrayal—is a daily act of restraint. There are things I’ve wanted to scream into the silence, moments I’ve wanted to fight back, to justify, to explain. But instead, I breathe. I anchor myself in peace, not because it’s easy, but because my son deserves the very best of me—even when I feel like I’ve been hollowed out.
The Lessons I Didn’t Ask to Learn
This journey has forced me to learn lessons I never asked for:
How to grieve and mother at the same time.
How to speak up while being dismissed.
How to hold space for my emotions without being shamed for having them.
How to accept that healing takes time—and some days, I won’t have the capacity for it.
How to keep going when life unravels from every direction.
How to seek understanding even in the absence of closure.
It’s taught me how to come back to myself, how to redefine strength—not as stoicism, but as resilience in vulnerability.
To Any Woman Over 40 Going Through This
To the woman who gave everything—your body, your mind, your career—for the dream of motherhood, and then found yourself abandoned in its aftermath: you are not broken. You are not too emotional. You are not alone.
You are allowed to grieve what was lost. To feel the sting of rejection. To mourn your dogs, your friends, your old life. You are allowed to feel like there’s too much on your plate—because there is.
But you are also allowed to heal. To rise. To rebuild a life that reflects who you truly are—not who you were expected to be.
Your emotions do not make you unsafe.
They make you real.
They make you whole.
They make you powerful.
Keep showing up. Keep standing in your truth. Your story isn’t over—it’s just beginning. Like a phoenix, you are rising.
With you always,
Martha ( a mother still fighting her way home to herself 🖤 )
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